


Gold, red

by AphroditesLaw



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, F/F, Inspired by Dexter, Murder, Scars, graphic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 13:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditesLaw/pseuds/AphroditesLaw
Summary: Lexa has a hobby. Clarke has the target.





	Gold, red

The coffin is made of pine and so poorly manufactured it might as well be a crate. You couldn’t be happier: there's nothing Titus deserves more than this embarrassing display. His widow, Sylvia, has left you alone with him while she greets mourners in the adjoining room. As you look at his dead body now, from his bald head to his wrinkled hands, you can't help but think how the mighty have fallen.

"I’m sorry it couldn’t be mahogany for you, father," you muse aloud. "It seems like you weren’t as well-off as you'd advertised."

In contrast to his ill-fitted brown suit, your outfit is tailored and all black. You don't usually care for suits, and any other memorial would’ve seen you in a dress, but the occasion called for it. Sylvia looked so embarrassed when she first saw you outside the funeral home, knowing that she would have to stand next to such a blatant display of lesbianism. She still put on her best southern smile when she greeted you—after all, your pockets look deep, and God knows she needs the money now. You don't believe in karma, but sometimes you can appreciate the notion.

There’s something relaxing about looking at your father lying in his shitty box. When you were a kid, this is all you ever wanted. When you ran your fingers down the welts on your back, you dreamed of today. You knew he wouldn't change, even if his next offspring never felt his belt on their spines. Rotten stays rotten no matter the coat of varnish on it. Soon he'll be back in the dirt, with his perfectly dull collar hiding the perfectly deep slash on his throat.

"Alexandria?"

You turn around and see Sylvia walking toward you. She smells strongly of perfume and her foundation looks yellow. It's her lipstick you dislike the most, a repulsive cross between orange and pink. You remember when you first met her, the summer before second grade. She had the same lipstick on and when she grinned at you and pinched your cheeks, like you were some kind of animal, you noticed the lipstick stains on four of her front teeth. She looked so stupid that you laughed the loudest you had since your mother died and you clutched your stomach from how good it ached. Titus slapped you with such anger that you fell back on the dry grass and felt your skull quiver from the force of his blow. Sylvia turned away with a huff and you never forgot watching her walk into your mom's childhood house while you clutched your cheek with a trembling hand.

"Thank you for giving me some time alone with him," you tell her. "I was just thinking what a nice coffin this is."

Sylvia runs her hand through her waxy hair, as if self-conscious. You're not the scraggy fifteen-year-old you were when you left the house. Fourteen years have passed since then and you've done well for yourself. You've grown into your body and you're the one looking down at her now. Better yet, you know your worth and she knows it too.

"We tried to do right by him," she says, pushing her hair behind her ear.

She has heavy earrings on, fake gold with fake emeralds. Once upon a time, you used to think her jewelry was treasure. She guarded it like a dragon guards a castle and you thought her velvet box had to contain the most precious things in the world. Eventually you realized it was the illusion that she protected so carefully. If no one took a closer look, no one could tell she wore baubles.

"It did take a toll on us to find the right one," she reveals, unable to help herself. "But I thought—Titus liked things simple, didn't he?"

You nearly snort. Your father flaunted any pathetic amount of wealth he had his entire life.

"It suits him," you answer.

"Well, you know." Sylvia digs into her purse to grab a tissue. "It sure was a lot to take on by myself, with the boys gone out of the house." She blows her nose loudly. "I had to sell his car. He loved that Camaro."

You widen your eyes, feigning awe. "And you got enough from it to cover expenses? That’s fantastic."

She smiles thinly before glancing down at your watch. It was your anniversary gift and you're glad she noticed it.

"Not quite everything," she says, laying it on thick now. "But we make sacrifices for family, don't we? It's the right thing to do."

You put on your best frown. "Sylvia, are you having money problems?"

She makes a clucking sound, offended that you asked her outright. A woman like Sylvia will never admit to being in need; her pride would not survive the blow. "It's just that it’s set me back a little is all," she says. "I haven’t had time to grieve."

"You still have a couple years ahead of you," you tell her with a shrug. "Surely enough time for you to reflect back."

Her cheeks redden and her hands tighten around the handle of her purse. She is so close to losing her composure.

"I have the greatest idea." You pull out something from your pocket and notice the brief flicker of hope in her eyes. You hand her a business card and watch her expression sour again. "This is the address to a friend's smoke shop. Why don’t you sell Titus's box of cigars? I heard some of those can go for a couple hundred." You doubt Titus's crummy collection will manage to get a single Franklin bill but you couldn't resist mentioning it. You still have the burns from his cigars on your thighs.

Sylvia's mask finally slips. "I thought you'd finally grown to appreciate what this family sacrificed for you," she sneers. "But there’s no heart in there."

"Everything alright here?"

You immediately soften at the sight of Clarke, your divine intervention. She takes your arm and glances between Sylvia and you like she can't believe so much shifted so quickly in her five-minute absence to the restroom. She's finally pinned her hair up after complaining about the southern heat the entire ride here, and you can't help the smile that tugs at your lips.

"Everything is perfect," you tell her softly. "I was just about to tell Sylvia how happy I am."

"I think it would be best if you left," Sylvia says between her teeth. "You should've never come."

"I wanted to be sure he was being lowered back to where he belongs."

Clarke seems surprised by your candor. She knows the depth of your anger, but you promised to be civil.

"Bastard," Sylvia spits. "Your mother ruined that poor man's life. Left him with an ungrateful, miserable little pest."

You feel Clarke tense before she steps toward Sylvia with a dark storm in her eyes. "What did you just say?"

When Clarke defends you, your heart always bursts with affection. That is your wife and she loves you so much that she would go to battle for you. But you are tired of Sylvia and this war was won a long time ago, when you left. You cup your hand around Clarke’s waist. "It doesn’t matter."

You got the last look you wanted and now you're ready to leave.

"I hope it was worth it," you tell Sylvia simply. She may have accomplished very little, but she isn’t stupid. You see in her expression that she knows what you mean—if seducing a married man was worth it, if walking in the shoes of his dead wife was worth it, if turning her back when he beat his child was worth it. You don't get an answer and you never will; you've made your peace with that.

You nudge Clarke toward the exit and grab her hand when you walk by the mourners gathered. You recognize your half-brothers and feel a sudden rush of pride when their eyes linger on Clarke. These are the people who spent so long making you feel inadequate, flaunting their toys while you received what Sylvia would call ‘valuable lessons.’ These friends and neighbors who turned a blind eye to the bruises on your arms—you happily leave them behind.

Outside, Clarke lets go of your hand to grab the car keys from her purse. You feel like everything has slowed down, like you're in a trance and weightless. You barely hear Clarke when she rubs her neck and mentions the blazing heat again. You're so grateful she came with you.

When you reach the rental car, you’re overcome with adrenaline. You spin Clarke around and hear the clink of keys on the ground as you kiss her. Clarke inhales sharply, so surprised that when you push her up against the hood she lets out a squeak against your mouth. You run your hands over her legs and smile when she finally holds on to your waist. The kiss is crass and everyone can see you, but you savor every moment of it. There is nothing more satisfying than Titus’s memorial being desecrated by his lesbian daughter.

Clarke gently pushes you back. "Okay, tiger. Let’s get out of here."

You can only think of how attractive she looks with her lips swollen and her eyes dazed. You know why Sylvia barely acknowledged her: Clarke is confident and charming without trying. It's so hard for anyone to find anything displeasing about her. She has made every man here gawk and every woman try and fail to hide their jealous eyes. To them, stuck in the 50s, Clarke might as well be the pin-up model neatly folded up in their husbands’ wallets.

You're not ready to let go. You step closer and kiss up her neck, encouraged when she tilts her head back. "Lexa..." She tries to be the voice of reason but she doesn’t really care. Clarke is the least embarrassed person you know.

"I could make you come right here," you whisper in her ear. You can't stop smiling and your heart has gone wild, so elated that this day is coming to an end before it's even begun.

You feel her shiver but whatever shred of public decency she has left eventually takes over. She pushes you back more firmly and you let her. Clarke always has the final word in your relationship; you can’t really help it.

"As sexy as it sounds to flip the bird to these bigots, I don’t want to spend the night in jail." She brushes her thumb over the corner of your lip, wiping off some of her lipstick. "But we do still have a night with our silky sheets."

She gives you a provocative smile before hopping off the hood. You booked a hotel room for the night before you depart from this shithole state and you intend to make your wife very happy tonight.

\---

As it turns out, the sheets are far from your mind when you finally get to the hotel. The bliss you felt upon stepping out of the funeral home spreads further during the drive and soon you're both breaking into laughter on the road. Titus is being buried in a cheap suit in an even cheaper box and you just got kicked out of a funeral home—what else is there to do but laugh? Your hand rests on Clarke's thigh the entire ride, fingers inching closer to where she needs you but never close enough.

When you finally get to the hotel and into the elevator, Clarke pushes you against the wall and kisses you hard. She's pulled your shirt out of your pants by the time the doors open, and when she grabs your hands and walks backwards in the hall, she gives you a look so full of desire that your knees feel weak.

You press her up against the door to your room and kiss her again, thrilled when she moans into your mouth. She slips her hands beneath your shirt, holding on to your waist while you chart a path toward her neck, sucking on her favorite spot, still so tender from the last time you did it. When you look down at her breasts, something catches your eye.

"Blue lace at a funeral—really?"

She catches her breath. "Well we didn't really get to the funeral, did we?"

You grin. "Keep talking dirty."

She laughs into the collar of your shirt and you can't help but join in again, but soon she cups your neck and brings you lips together in a dizzying kiss. Suddenly you don't want to wait anymore. You don't want to waste time finding a key. Your hands glide up her thighs where you slip beneath her dress and hook your fingers in her underwear. You pull it down and hear her breath hitch.

"Door-"

You shake your head and kiss her again. "No one's here." You slip your hand between her legs and feel how ready she is for you, warm and so wet you desperately want a taste. She doesn't need much persuasion and you suspect she doesn't care where you are in the first place.

"Lexa," she moans against your mouth while you slowly enter her.

You imagine what someone walking in on you would see: you knuckle deep inside her; her with her mouth parted open, her arm slung around your neck to keep herself from crumbling. You're fairly certain this hotel isn’t even half-full but you don't actually want anyone to see your wife come. For that reason you give her what she needs quickly, curling your fingers while she tries to stifle her gasps against your shoulder.

You keep your other arm wrapped around her waist and don't mind if she leans hard against it, trapping it between her body and the door. You don't care about anything but the way she feels around your fingers and how she pants your name between pleas for you to go faster. When she comes, it's with a high-pitched cry that she silences as best she can. You nuzzle her neck, not ready to let go just yet.

"You bitch..." she mumbles after a few seconds.

"That’s not very nice."

"Nice is the last thing you want me to be right now." She leans back against the door, staring straight into your eyes while you pull out of her. She brings your fingers to her mouth and sucks them clean, then gives you a wet kiss with a wicked smile. You groan and scramble to find the key.

\---

You lose track of time, as you're prone to do in bed with your wife. All you know is that Clarke is tracing the scars on your back and you think about the night she did it for the first time. How she turned something ugly into such a beautiful feeling; her hands and her lips on you, exploring and cherishing. She wanted you to see them differently. A few months later you got a tree tattooed over them, with the roots and the branches matching each scar, spreading out and twisting together. Since then you've stopped worrying about how your back looks. It's made you who you are and that is the woman Clarke loves.

"How do you feel?" She asks after a while, her voice slightly scratchy.

The rush from before has finally ebbed into something else that you can't put your finger on. The only certainty is that Clarke has made this trip infinitely more interesting.

"Like I’ve been fucked into an expensive mattress."

She snorts, trying to be serious. "Lexa... I mean about earlier."

You try to answer her, but the words don’t match the feelings. You’re complete but at the same time you’re still missing the parts of you that Titus took.

"Hurts."

Her fingers stop tracing the scar on your shoulder blade. "Hurts how?"

You stare at the space between the half-drawn curtains, wondering how long ago the night fell. "To know it was all for nothing," you say, feeling detached from your body but not from Clarke. "That people will mourn him. Remember him. In the end he still got to have that, and it hurts."

Clarke is quiet for a while. "The way he died..." she brings up cautiously, "Even if he got away with hurting you, I think he paid for it in the end. I mean… the odds of a crime like that happening to him on his business trip. It makes you think, doesn't it?"

She wants to ask something else. You've suspected for a while that she knows something doesn't line up. You were on a business trip too when it happened. A few days later Sylvia called the house and then Clarke called you.

It wasn’t your best-laid plan, but you were in a haze when it happened. Titus signed away your mother’s house to his sons and you didn't take it well. It was the last line he crossed and something inside you just shattered. You barely remember what else you did around that time. You know Clarke was worried sick about you, but you don't know if you ever said anything in your sleep about it.

"I'm sorry," she says while pressing a kiss at the base of your neck. "I know you don't believe in that stuff-"

"No, don't be." You turn around and look up at her. No matter what, she makes you feel grounded. "It doesn't matter anymore. It's over, and I'm the happiest I've ever been."

She smiles tenderly and then leans down, giving you a kiss that keeps you preoccupied for a long time.

\---

You fly back home and slip back into your daily routine. Clarke returns to her school counselor duties and you get back to the grind of cyber security.

There's something strange about resuming your life like the weekend didn't mark the end of something momentous. You feel the same and yet different. A part of you, screaming for so long when you were a kid, has gone silent.

It doesn't help that there's nowhere else to go but deep in your thoughts when you're sitting in front of screens all day, but you don't mind it so much anymore. You’re one of the lucky ones to love their work. You're paid to identify and remediate threats, but at the core you're protecting people and assets. It fits you. You worked in software development for a while, but you’re happier now. You’re proud of where you landed.

One morning, you have breakfast with your friend Anya and watch her down coffee after coffee while she talks about her sales pitch for brand new software her company is developing. You're pretty sure there are cogs inside of her instead of muscle and bone. Anya is overworked, but she makes twice your salary and doesn’t want a family life. She’s perfectly content with her shot nerves and her workload on weekends, but there's an elastic band stretched taut in the coils of her mind and one day it will snap—that much you're sure of. You wish there was a way to stop it, but she won't listen to you.

Sometimes you get so anxious at the thought of losing your closest friend that it affects Clarke too. You're irritable and defensive and it spoils her day. Clarke doesn't prepare herself for tragedies. She lives life as it comes and you've always admired that about her. But you spent so much of your childhood obsessed with the future that it's ingrained in you now. Back then you thought about how much better everything would be once you got away, now you think about how painful it will be if you lose the people you love. You can't help it.

You know you would’ve turned into Anya if you hadn’t met Clarke. You lived that life out of college and it was fine then, but after seeing the other side you don’t want it anymore. Your job starts at 9 and ends at 6 and you like it that way. It means you get to wake up in your wife’s arms and come home on time to spend the evening with her. You don’t want a life of all-nighters at your office and coffee up to your eyeballs. Still, you admire Anya's ambition and her drive. You’re proud of being her friend. Anya makes time for very few people, but you made the cut a long time ago. She opened a lot of doors for you and you owe her your first job. If she needs someone to be her sounding board, you’ll be that person.

Not that work is all you ever talk about. Anya can be surprisingly interested in gossip. That’s why you do brunch at the same place. It’s always full and Anya gets a perverse kick out of eavesdropping on the chatter around you. You’ve heard your share of secrets over the years.

"So what did you get the wife?" Anya asks you at one point, sinking her teeth into a breakfast sandwich. No matter how long you’ve been here eating, she still has the appetite of a starving wolf.

"For which occasion do you ask?" You don’t forget these things, but Anya does.

"Don’t be daft. Three year anniversary, right?"

"Five weeks ago."

"Has it been already? Well what’s that—bronze?"

"You’ve skipped a few years. Leather."

"I’m sure you’ll get to it eventually." She finishes her sandwich and then gives you a hard stare. "You’re not fucking around, are you?"

You glare at her. "Don’t make me punch you."

She cracks a grin. "Just looking out for the Mrs. So what did you get each other?"

"I got her a jacket, she got me a watch."

"Because you pretended not to have one when you met her?"

"Shut up."

Anya smirks. "You’re cute, but also boring. The world of leather is so much bigger."

"Ah yes, but Clarke didn’t think she could rock the leather hat like you did in college."

"Fuck you, and you know what I meant."

The waitress comes by to refill Anya’s water and you glance at your phone to check your notifications. Clarke sent you a heart emoji in response to your usual morning text and you already have new emails from work. When you look back up, Anya is staring at the waitress’s ass as she walks away.

You snort. "Please."

Anya arches a brow. "What? She’s sweet."

"Yes, sweet as in vanilla."

"Takes one to know one."

You're usually pretty good at ignoring Anya's goading, but you can't help yourself this time. You drop a sugar in your coffee and watch it dissolve. "Clarke and I fucked in a hotel hall after getting kicked out of my father’s memorial."

Anya sits back in her chair. "Well. I’m proud of Clarke for getting it out of you. I hope she knows that."

You smile and pick up your cup of coffee.

\---

Saturday is your favorite day and you spend it planning the summer.

Clarke will be on break soon and get to paint during the days again. She opens the windows wide, bunches her hair atop her head, and gets so lost in her colors that she can go hours without stopping. Even you were surprised the first time you witnessed how much fervor she puts into her paintings. Her frustrations at not being creative build so much throughout the school year that when she finally picks up a brush, not even the world crashing could disturb her. You—you would be content watching her all day: the way she moves around the room, gazes at the canvas, sweats through her clothes, works out the kinks in her neck when she's been in one position for too long. Sometimes she gets herself so worked up that she needs your hands on her as soon as you get home. One time, you ruined a day's work by pressing her up against it.

You can't wait for the summer to start again, but there are still three weeks to go until then.

When Clarke is done with some of her work, you go on your usual stroll through the nearby park. The lake is the biggest attraction, but Clarke and you stick to the path that cuts through the oak trees. She likes the changing colors and you like the shade, but mostly you'd follow her anywhere.

You hear some kids laughing and spot the playground in the distance. Just two weeks ago the heavy rain turned everything to slippery mud and deep puddles, but there's no trace of its passage now. Families are out enjoying the sun and the park is thriving. It's in these instances that you feel overwhelmingly attached to this neighborhood. You don't mind your commute to the city for work, but your life is here.

You feel Clarke's hand on your cheek and see her looking at you with a smile.

"What?"

"You're being sentimental, aren't you?"

You frown. "I didn't say anything."

She shrugs. "I know that look on your face, babe. You can't fool me."

"That you know of," you point out.

She snorts. "Name one time I read you wrong."

The fact that she's so sure of herself gives you pause. "It's not really something I keep count of."

"Uh-huh."

You narrow your eyes, not one to ignore a challenge. "Fine. Your surprise birthday party."

She hums in acknowledgment. "Oh right… my _surprise_ birthday party."

You stop in the path. "Clarke."

She looks at you innocently. "Yes, love?"

"No. You didn't know. I don't believe you."

She laughs and tries to walk again, but you tug at her hand. "Our last Valentine's at the Bed & B," you state confidently.

She smirks. "That view on the mountains we had? Who do you think made the call?"

You gape at her. "They said the room freed up!"

"That tends to happen when you grease the owner's palm beforehand."

"But you didn't know about the spa, right?"

She bites her lip and you hang your head. "No," you groan.

She tries to contain her smile while she wraps her arms around your neck. "Lexa, you stuffed the paper receipt in the pocket of the jacket we always share."

"Let me guess: my summer plans are a bust too," you mutter.

"Well… Anya may have shared your ideas with Raven who obviously can't keep her mouth shut."

You sigh. "Can we please get new friends?"

She smiles and then kisses you. "You've actually surprised me so many times. You want to know what the first was?"

"I'm guessing it's on a very short list," you retort petulantly.

She shakes her head. "When you kissed me in that shitty alley on our third date. Every time I think about it, my heart just starts pounding all over again."

"Oh." You think fondly back on it, remembering how you threw caution to the wind. The alley was gnarly and dark, by no means romantic, but she'd just laughed at one of your stupid jokes and then turned to look at you. You felt overcome with a need to kiss her and did just that, cupping her face right there and guiding her against the nearest wall when she kissed you back. You still remember the surge of desire when she opened her mouth; the way she clung to you; her chest against yours; your entire body becoming alive with the knowledge that nothing had ever felt so good.

"Hm. That was a good kiss," you say.

She grins at your proud smile. "Very, very good."

"Well alright. At least I had one good surprise."

She hums and gives you a peck before tugging back on your hand to resume your walk. You feel so in love with her, so content. It's only a moment later that a chilling thought crosses your mind. Clarke knows you so well, but there is a part of you she hasn't uncovered yet—or so you've always believed. As you look at her now, you can't help but wonder if perhaps she's more adept at hiding things from you. You're about to ask how on earth she knew about her surprise party—Anya, it has to be Anya again—when you notice her staring in the distance.

She seems fixated on a man sitting on a bench right in front of the playground, like there's something about him bothering her. You've never seen him before and try to discern anything exceptional about him. He's alone as far as you can tell, wearing sunglasses and holding a book on his lap. There's a backpack by him, but nothing out of the ordinary. You're good at observing people and paying attention to the details. It's hard to guess how old he is because of his reddish beard—probably in his forties, with some graying roots and a hunched profile. You can't tell if he's really reading, asleep, or-

"Do you know him?" You ask Clarke.

Clarke frowns. "It's weird. About a month ago I saw him hand something to Madi before she got on her bus after school. I didn't make anything of it but then last week I saw them talking."

Madi. She's the eleven-year-old kid who stops by Clarke's office every week. Her parents are going through a messy divorce and she's been doing terrible in classes. She talks back to teachers, swears at other kids and sits with her arms crossed during exams. She's angry and in pain, but somehow—and it didn't surprise you—Clarke managed to get past her defenses. Madi opens up to her. You know Clarke has a soft spot for her because her own parents split up when she was a teen. She wants to be the voice of encouragement she didn't have; offer the perspective she now has. It's just hard; she knows her limits as a school counselor. There's only so much she can offer.

You look back toward the man on the bench. "Any relation to her?"

Clarke shakes her head. "Not that I know of. I just feel like I've seen him before. He's so familiar."

It's hard to tell from where you are, even as you approach the bench, but the more you stare the more you wonder. Have you seen him around? Maybe he just moved here. You don't like that he's hanging around the school if he's got no business there though.

"He doesn't exactly blend in."

Clarke sighs. You don't want to say anything or steer the conversation in any direction. You know she's been on edge at work and the last thing she needs is more stress. It's nearly the end of the school year, which means she's dealing with anxious kids every day of the week. It gets to her, even if she loves her job. Sometimes Clarke gets so bogged down in other people's problems that she comes home completely drained.

"I'm probably overreacting."

Your eyes linger on him. Now that you've started asking questions, you can't stop. "Did you notice that his book is covering his lap and that he hasn't turned a page since we spotted him? Awfully slow reader, unless he's not reading at all."

Clarke considers it for a second. "Maybe he's sleeping."

As you get closer yet, you notice his leg is bouncing up and down. It's slight, but it's definitely there.

"Or he's a pedophile," you say.

Clarke looks at you like she can't believe you said it. "Lexa."

"What? You're thinking it too."

"I didn't think that."

"Well that's marriage, isn’t it? We fill in each other's blanks."

Clarke shakes her head and pulls on your hand, forcing you to walk faster. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Maybe you should trust your instincts."

She glares at you. "Seriously?"

"What? You brought it up for a reason, didn't you?"

"Yes, because I thought you of all people would be rational about it."

"You're implying your own feelings are irrational."

"Don't psychoanalyze me."

You frown at the sudden anger in her tone. "What did you expect me to say?"

"I expected you to say he's probably just a family friend or a neighbor looking out for her."

"Yes, or a pervert."

She lets go of your hand. "Stop it!"

You press your lips together. She's upset. You watch her eyes darken before she lets out a huff and then turns around to walk away.

You suddenly regret being so forward. You know how much she cares about Madi, which is exactly why she doesn't want to be right. She wants you to have a reasonable explanation for a stranger talking to a child, but this isn’t something you can just slap a rose filter on. You're not that person and she knows that. You can't close your eyes just because you don't like what you might see.

Still… Clarke isn’t wrong to be cautious in her line of thinking. He could like to sit in public parks for a variety of reasons: could be lonely, could be nostalgic of that particular spot, even the playground. Maybe he's related to Madi. Maybe he's a neighbor keeping an eye on her after hearing her parents' screaming matches. Maybe he's Jesus fucking Christ—he certainly looks the part. The point is, you need to be on alert, but you can't be rash.

\---

Dinner is quiet and you're not proud of the way you handled the conversation in the park. Clarke barely eats and you over think how you should apologize. You handle the dishes while she puts on a movie and settles on the couch. You need to make this better.

There's a chill in the house so you go upstairs to get the blanket you folded up in the closet a few weeks ago. While pushing clothes to the side, you find the suit you wore at Titus's memorial. It stops you completely. You didn't bother cleaning it because you wore it for such a short time and you wonder if it still smells like your town. If you pressed your nose again the sleeve, would you find yourself back in that room staring at your father's lifeless body?

Would you see his blood on your hands?

You grab the blanket and slam the closet shut. You don't want to think about it. You don't want to think about him ever again.

You find Clarke on the couch and settle by her side, but she repositions to rest her head on your lap. You drape the blanket over her and lean down to kiss her forehead, relieved when she looks up at you. She gives you a soft smile and then brushes her thumb over your cheek. Sometimes you're both silent for stretches of time, but it doesn't mean you've stopped communicating.

Clarke falls asleep halfway through the movie, but the glow of the TV keeps you awake. You gently run you fingers through her hair the way she likes, stopping when you get a clear view of her neck and brush your index over her pulse. Suddenly your heart beats faster. It makes you tug at her hair just a bit too hard and she shifts in your lap, but she doesn't wake up. You love her pulse; you marvel at it. Sometimes it makes you want to do crazy things.

At the worst of times, you imagine what it would be like if it stopped. Your chest tightens when you think about that. There are dark moments when you're hungry for pain, for punishment, so you consider it even longer. You think about Clarke's eyes open and empty, staring at you without seeing you. You think about her cold body being lowered beneath the dirty ground, her hands made to hold a bouquet of flowers that will inevitably wilt. You think about the unbearable ache you'll walk with every day; how the little sanity you have left will crumble, how the thought of never feeling her body next to yours again will eat you alive. Before you know it, you're crying. Your tears land on her cheek and you wipe a thumb over them, willing yourself to stop. You feel her beneath your finger. She's right here and alive. Safe. She breathes peacefully and you along with her. But when she dies, you'll die with her.

"Baby?"

You feel her shift against you and suddenly she's cupping your face and pushing your hair behind your ears.

"What's wrong?" She asks you. She's so confused. You are too. You don't like crying. You don't like being weak, but if you must be, from time to time, you don't mind her seeing you like this. "Lexa, talk to me."

You love your nickname on her lips. Always have. She says it suits you perfectly; that she could never stick to calling you Alexandria. You prefer Lexa too. Your full name doesn't even feel like you anymore.

"I'm just tired." It's the truth as simply as you can tell her. You've never felt heavier. Titus is dead, but his blood still runs through your veins and there's nothing you can do about it. Clarke has taught you so much about loving yourself, but sometimes you can't help but betray her teachings. Sometimes you find yourself loathing every cell and every bone and every organ in your body. It drains you completely.

Clarke kisses you sweetly before grabbing your hands. "Let's get some sleep," she says.

When you curl up in her arms in bed, she kisses every inch of your face she can reach and takes on the heaviness you feel.

\---

You'd almost forgotten about the guy from the park when you see him again at the grocery store the following week. Clarke is reading the back of a can of bean soup—she’ll get tomato, she always does—when you spot him walking by with an empty basket. You have to do a double take because of how different he looks. He’s clean-shaven and he looks younger now, with his hair shorter and a reddish brown. He’s given himself a makeover, but he isn’t exactly handsome. Something about him just sits wrong with you. It’s hard to tell if it’s because Clarke dislikes him or if it’s your genuine gut feeling.

“Tomato.”

You watch her put six cans in your cart and blink at her.

“What?”

"I got tomato. Let’s grab some cheese.”

Clarke is the most scatterbrained shopper you know but you’ll be damned if you don’t listen to her prattle about cheddar on your way to the cheese aisle. You glance one more time over your shoulder but find the man gone.

\---

You see him around more. That’s what happens when you’re on the lookout for someone: they tend to crop up everywhere you look. You don't live in a small neighborhood but you tend to recognize some people after a while, so you figure he moved in recently and not in any of the houses on sale (you've checked). That means he's probably in one of the apartment complexes.

Clarke starts to notice him more around the school too, twice in one week. He’s there when parents show up to pick up their kids, only no one ever runs up to him. He stays to chat with Madi at the bus stop and then leaves—always with his sunglasses and his backpack, like he's some kind of curious tourist. Clarke says he looks friendly enough that, to anyone else, he's just any other parent in the bustle of the afternoon. Madi talks back to him too, and animatedly. For Clarke, who knows Madi has withdrawn into herself and lost her friends, seeing her engage with him is the part that feeds her hesitations. What if he's harmless? Truly helping her through a tough time?

But you - you start to feel that ache inside you again. That impulse. He's upsetting your wife and he hangs near children for no explicable reason; it's more than enough for you to focus your attention on him.

You go down to the basement a couple times just to make sure you're stocked on what you need, should you need it. Your basement is no dingy room, but it is soundproof. The family who lived here before had an entire array of musical instruments, but Clarke and you often have your fun being loud in other ways. Most things you keep here are for the backyard, but those tools have other advantages Clarke doesn't know about. Thinking ahead has always saved your ass. 

But before you settle on a sentence, you need to be sure of your accusation.

\---

The following Saturday, when Clarke has lunch with her friend Raven, you go to the park on your own. You have flyers printed out and a clipboard you dusted off from your supplies. You're dressed a bit differently; less tech nerd and more concerned mom. When you find him on the bench with his backpack and the same book Clarke's told you he carries, you approach him with your best smile. 

When he looks toward you, his body language changes quickly. He tenses and you swear you see his eyes widen behind his glasses. Then again, you look exactly the part of the charity solicitors people love to dodge. You need to play your cards right.

"Hi, I'm a volunteer for the recreation center. Would you have a minute to chat?"

He raises his brows in surprise. Maybe he thought you'd ask something else.

"I don't want to take up much of your time," you continue. "We're just hoping to start a summer festival next year and need over five thousand signatures to get through some red tape. Have you heard about it?"

"A festival?" He repeats, now looking relieved. He probably expected you to ask about dying whales or human traffic. Now he's more receptive—you're not asking for a credit card, just a harmless signature and email. "I haven't heard of it, no."

You extend the flyer you made over the week. Sometimes you have too much fun with these things.

"To celebrate the summer," he reads aloud.

You nod. "We'd have music, artists, rides for the kids, local food of course—we're even considering a maze we'd keep around for Halloween."

"Seems like a great project."

"It'll bring a lot of business around. We also welcome helping hands, if you're interested."

He looks up. "I've never been a part of anything like this before."

You decide to play curious: "Have you moved here recently?"

"Just a few months ago," he answers quickly before deflecting: "It's an ambitious project—a festival."

You nod. "We have some great backing though, especially from parents. The teens around here… they like to jump off the cliffs in the summer. We've had a lot of accidents around the lake."

He chuckles dryly. "Kids get bored so easy."

You push on: "We hope the festival will change that. Bring some fun in a safe environment," you say, holding his stare. "And it would attract families from all over the county. Perfect to meet new people."

You see the wheels spinning in his head. If you're right about him, if he came here to do harm, you've just handed him the keys to the magic kingdom. You might as well be giving him a van and a bag of candy too.

You extend the clipboard. "Can I count you in?"

He scratches his freshly shaved neck and then takes the clipboard. "What the heck. Would love to get involved."

He takes the pen and starts writing his name. "Are you married?" He asks, taking you by surprise.

You don't want to give him any information on yourself, but you forgot to take off your ring and you can't just brush him off before he's written down his email.

"I am."

He looks up and gives you a thin smile. "That's nice."

The way he says it doesn't sit well with you. You wonder how much Madi has told him. If he knows she sees Clarke. If he worries she tells her about him. Or maybe he's just trying to force your hand; get you to reveal things about yourself you wouldn't otherwise. Turn the tables around. You have a feeling he knows exactly how to get under people's skin. You watch as he etches his email and start to feel antsy. It's like he's scribbling slowly on purpose.

He takes off his glasses and when he looks back up, your eyes meet. His are a cold blue and for the first time you know with certainty that there's nothing friendly about him. He's still smiling but it looks smug, like he knows something you don't. You've seen that look before too many times to count. He thinks he's fooled you; maybe even that you're a complete idiot. You recall that Clarke felt she'd seen him before and suddenly know exactly what she means. There's a nagging worry at the back of your mind that there's more to him than his interest in Madi.

"Are you married?" You ask.

He hands you the clipboard back. "Unfortunately not. But I have a special someone I love very much."

Your stomach lurches.

"Maybe you can bring them over," you answer as best you can, trying hard not to bite on your tongue. "We'll need all hands on deck."

"That would be fun."

You glance at the name he signed. "Well you'll be hearing from me soon, Collin."

"Looking forward to it," he says.

You leave without a glance back, feeling anger swirl inside you. You feel like he's seen you; like he knew what trick you were playing and toyed with you.

But he has no idea who he's up against, not even close.

\---

His name doesn't yield any results, which doesn't surprise you. Collin Eamon isn’t real, you know that much.

You wait just a day before sending his email a phishing scam. You need him to bite.

\---

For a couple of days, you don't see him anywhere. Not in the park or any store. You check your laptop regularly, obsessing over it during your lunch hours. Clarke notices you biting your nails more and scolds you gently. You feel like you're wasting time. You feel the urge you always do; to do something. You grow frustrated. It doesn't usually take them this long. Fuck.

\---

You buy Clarke flowers one night after work. It's been a shit week and you need to nurture what's most important in your life. You promised yourself you would when you were a kid. That when you found something good, someone good, you'd try your hardest to make them happy. You'd cherish them with everything you had. You'll never lose sight of that.

You're in the living room answering an email when you hear Clarke hiss in the kitchen. When you go check on her, you see her by the kitchen sink with the flowers on the counter. She's staring at her finger and you notice the blood leaking down her index, probably from a thorn. You’re more perplexed by the way Clarke is looking at her finger. Just staring at the beads of red like she's in a daze. When the blood starts dripping, you walk by her side and take her finger to give it a wet kiss, sucking on the blood before you wrap it in a napkin.

She blinks several times at you. "Lexa?"

You raise a brow, amused by how mystified she seems. “Clarke?"

She looks back down at her finger and then shakes her head. “Oh, sorry. Thanks.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I—" She looks at your lips and swallows thickly. "Just distracted.”

"It’s been a long week, hasn't it?”

"The longest." She puts the flowers in a vase. “Thank you, babe. They're gorgeous.”

"You're gorgeous."

She turns to you with a smile, then looks at your lips again. "You have some…"

She pulls on your belt and takes you by surprise with a kiss. Her tongue licks your bottom lip and when she starts sucking you feel desire pool low in your stomach. You hum and press closer to her, feeling her smile against you. She kisses you more deeply, moaning when you back her against the counter. You're so focused on chasing her tongue that when you feel your bra snap open you pull back in awe.

"How-"

She grins and shuts you up again, working on unbuttoning your blouse next.

\---

Clarke has started snoring lightly when you turn around for the tenth time that night. It's nearly 2am and you can't sleep despite Clarke wearing you out. She kept you going until your muscles ached and you could barely lift yourself up anymore. You're not sure what got into her tonight but you're not complaining. You're just a bit jealous she fell asleep so quickly after, especially in this heat. Regardless, you're definitely buying her more flowers soon.

Despite your exhaustion, you drag yourself to your office space and sit in front of your laptop with a sigh. You pull up your screen and adjust the horribly bright light. You forgot your glasses on the nightstand and are about to go get them when you do a double take: Collin's taken the bait.

You suddenly feel wide-awake. Now you can start digging.

\---

First, he's not Collin Eamon at all but Carl Emerson. He moved here a couple months ago and, unsurprisingly, lives in one of the apartment complexes not too far from the school. Once you crawl deeper into the rabbit hole, it becomes obvious why he's changed his name. Having spent most of his life in Florida, the records you find paint a grim picture. He served time for aggravated assault in the workplace eight years ago, where he viciously beat a female employee until he was pulled away.

He's scum as far as you’re concerned, but not guilty of the crime you’re looking for. You have drawn a very clear line to temper your hobby and he hasn’t crossed it yet, at least not on paper.

Second, he makes most of his purchases through his PayPal, from innocuous things like groceries and clothes to premium subscriptions to porn. Disgusted as you may be by his taste in voyeurism and webcam shows, what he's shelling money for remains legal. That means it's another dead-end for you.

When you look at the time and realize you've been digging his dirt for over an hour, you wipe everything you've been doing and shut down your laptop. You sit in the dark and try to think this through.

Emerson clearly has violence in him, but he served his time for that. There’s a precedent there though and what Clarke hoped was an irrational feeling was right on the money. You're amazed at how observant she can be. She’s always been a strong judge of character, but this time she felt something else. She felt the type of thing you see.

You’ve always known you were made for each other, but whenever you get a reminder it always makes you feel absolute bliss. When you slip back into bed, you can't help but draw closer to her beneath the sheets. She must feel the mattress dip and gives you a tired whine.

"You're too hot," she says.

You kiss the spot below her ear and slide your hand beneath her tank top. "I know."

She cracks an eye open. "Not what I meant."

You smile, then look down at her. "No?"

She sighs and grips your hips, pulling you fully on top of her. "Where did you go?"

You shrug, which you often do when she asks these questions. You're not ready to tell her, but you also can't lie. She stares at you for a moment and then pushes your hair behind your ears.

"As long as you come back," she says quietly.

You nod and then kiss her.

\---

Over the next few days, you dig deeper into Emerson's life whenever there's a lull at work, but there isn't much more you can do. He's clearly not worried about a digital trail and with good reason: there's nothing alarming there. Nothing on Madi. Nothing on anyone else. Which means you need to get closer.

At breakfast with Anya, you're so preoccupied that you're completely useless when she talks about her most recent coding catastrophe. Anya's team is struggling with their latest project and she has to pitch the software in a week, which makes her just as anxious as you are.

You're finally at home and trying to relax in the living room armchair when you formulate a plan to follow Emerson.

The front door slams closed and you startle.

"I confronted that guy today."

Clarke is taking off her jacket with shaky hands when she walks into the living room. She looks absolutely furious and you immediately set your tablet aside. You're not often on the receiving end of Clarke's anger, but you know to let her get it all out. When you're the one listening to her vent, you can admire the movements of her hands and the fire in her eyes. There's something extraordinary about it.

"You what?" You ask, not entirely sure what she announced.

"That guy we saw at the park, who talks to Madi," she elaborates.

You sit up, suddenly more alert. You didn't anticipate that happening, but you should have. Of course Clarke would confront him.

"I went up to him after she got on the bus and asked if he was waiting for someone. He said he was just on his way to the park and left."

You need to be very careful. Clarke is right, but you don't want anyone to connect her to him.

"That's worrisome," you agree.

She paces in the living room. "I need to tell the security guys to keep an eye on him. And I want to report him to the school and her parents. This isn’t fucking normal."

You try to think quickly. The moment he senses danger, Emerson will be gone faster than you can act. You know his type too well. There's probably nothing in his place he can't pack up or abandon in a matter of minutes. He'll be gone and one day it'll be another neighborhood he moves into. You can't take that chance.

"Maybe you could ask Madi about it," you suggest.

She looks at you with a frown. "Ask her what?"

"If she knows him. You did say she talked back. Maybe we're missing something."

"No, I—I can feel… I don't know how but I know something's not right."

“Clarke...” You try to temper her.

“You don't understand—the look he gave me when I came up to him, like he’d been caught…" She shakes her head and takes a breath. "He scares me, Lexa. This whole thing does. I don't know what to do. What if what you said at the park—what if it's true?"

You press your lips together. You want so badly to tell her she should do everything to stop him, but you're so close to closing in on him yourself. You just need proof. Then you can quietly take care of him and Clarke can stop worrying herself to the bone. You hate seeing her like this, but you can’t seal his fate just yet. You just need him to slip—one little slip for his foot to cross your line. You promised yourself you’d never compromise otherwise. You can't take out every angry piece of shit in the world, you just can't.

It's the monsters you're concerned with.

Clarke lets out a sigh of frustration and plops down on the couch, running a hand over her eyes. There are heavy bags beneath them, but worse is how drained she looks. You hadn’t realized it'd gotten this bad and feel horrible for not being able to confirm what she's telling you. You know she's right, that she should report him, but you have to play the long game.

You quickly get up to sit on the coffee table, reaching down to take Clarke's heels off. You let her rest her feet on your lap and gently massage her ankles.

"I don't know if it's true, but I think Madi trusts you. Ask her."

She shakes her head. "She's so lost, Lexa. Everyone's failing her. Her parents are too busy tearing each other apart to care and the worst part is she knows it."

You feel something shift inside you. You've never met Madi but you can empathize with reaching the lowest of points so young. You know what it's like to feel isolated. She's important to Clarke so she's important to you too. You're going to make sure she's safe and you'll draw blood if you must.

"You haven’t failed her. As far as I'm concerned, having you in her corner is a pretty good thing."

Clarke gives you a tired smile. "I guess that means she's got you too."

You smile back.

"Oh God, I didn't even say hi," Clarke suddenly says.

You shrug, knowing she would eventually. Clarke leans forward and cups the back of your neck to kiss you. It's an odd angle but you would suffer all sorts of body-pains to kiss your wife.

"Hi," she says.

You brush her nose with yours. "How about I draw you a bath? I bought those bath salts you like."

She leans her forehead against yours. "You really love me, don't you?"

It seems like she was angling for a joke, but it sounds heavier to you. Almost scared.

"I love you more than anything, Clarke. I always will."

She looks at you for a beat longer until she exhales deeply.

\---

Pressed for time, you decide to tail Emerson on Sunday night, when Clarke will be out having dinner with her best friend Wells. He's back from a yearlong teaching opportunity in Tokyo and you know Clarke has missed him more than she'd admit. They'll be catching up for hours, more than enough time for you to slip out. You hope that Emerson will leave his apartment, giving you the time to find your tangible proof.

If you don't, you'll have a choice to make.

But if you do, you'll be ready for him.

\---

It's Friday night when Clarke and you head out to a popular bar not too far away from where you live. You could walk but decide on Uber when the wind picks up. The sky has been moody all week and it should rain soon, but hopefully it spares you tonight.

As always the place is crowded and you recognize the usual familiar faces; some neighborhood acquaintances, some parents on a break, and some hopeful singles. You don't really love this place but it's on one of the only lively streets at night and Clarke has a soft spot for its old furniture and old music. You have to admit the booze is much more interesting than what you'd expected when you first came here.

But tonight—tonight Clarke is distracted and elsewhere, like she's been lately. You try to look in the same direction she is, toward the busy bar, but you can't figure out what's got her so bothered.

You finish a bowl of olives and sit back, feeling dispirited. Usually Clarke and you can talk for hours, unaware of the minutes passing. On your first date you walked down the beach boardwalk at 11pm and realized when you reached the end that it was 2am. Now you couldn’t be more aware of the seconds ticking. You know it happens. That sometimes there are lulls.

"Lexa."

You look at her with a pout, which makes Clarke smile.

"I’m sorry."

"You didn’t want to come here."

"Of course I did."

Your phone vibrates in your pocket but you ignore it. "What's on your mind?" You ask.

She hesitates, then takes a long breath. "Recently, I've been feeling-"

Your phone buzzes again. You frown, annoyed, and fish it out of your pocket. It's Anya, which is enough to let you know something's wrong. Anya never calls, let alone twice in a row.

"Answer her," Clarke says, equally concerned.

You nod and quickly take the call outside, only understanding Anya's panicked tone once the music's not so loud. You've never heard her this rattled and hurry back to Clarke, who's now off staring toward the bar again. You glance there but only see the back of heads and dancing bodies.

"Anya needs help with some last minute coding," you announce. "Do you want to go home? It's going to be boring."

Clarke hesitates. "I think I'll grab another drink first."

"Will you call an Uber?"

"I'll wait a bit before I head out," she replies. "Promise."

"I'm sorry. This sucks."

She chuckles. "We'll have other dates, babe."

You lean down to kiss her and pull away but she kisses you again, surprising you both. Her kiss is fierce and she clings to you like you're parting for longer than a couple of hours. Something is really troubling her and you hate that you have to leave.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, yeah." She rubs her thumb across your bottom lip. You kiss the tip of her finger and she smiles. "I'll keep your side of the bed warm. Say hi to Anya for me."

"Text me when you get home?"

"I will."

\---

Clarke doesn't text.

You're deep in some complex coding with Anya, but your phone is on the table next to you and you glance at it every minute. It never lights up with her name.

You call her once, but it goes unanswered.

Anya tells you, in simple terms, to calm the fuck down. It's only been an hour.

\---

When you finally help Anya have a breakthrough, she just about shoves you out of her apartment. You know she's not ungrateful, she's just a ball of stress and you've been worrying about Clarke all night, which hasn't helped. You get home as quickly as possible, trying not to let your heart pound its way out of your chest. You feel sick at the thought of anything happening to her.

You try to be rational. She just forgot. She sat on the couch and fell asleep with her phone on her chest. Clarke can doze off in ten seconds and on any surface—it's a wonder, really. You practically fly out of the Uber when it drops you off. You open the door quickly.

"Clarke?" You call out.

A bright red spot by the corner catches your eye and, on instinct, you slam the door behind you.

You rush to round the corner and stop, practically tripping on a puddle of blood and the body it's leaking out of.

When you look up, you find Clarke at the entrance of the kitchen and staring at you, her eyes wide and scared. For a moment, you're completely paralyzed.

Clarke. Your Clarke. Bloody and shaken. But as you look over her for any indication that she's hurt, you find nothing at all. Not even a scrape. When you glance back at the body on the floor, you realize that it's Emerson.

"Huh," you say in surprise, then look around at your furniture. Nothing is out of place and there are no signs of a struggle.

The gore is fairly limited. Clarke went for the chest and the throat—probably with the kitchen knife that's now on the floor by her feet. It must've all happened quickly, and she didn't stop at one slash. You know you should be terrified for her but in truth you're struck by the carnage—absolutely in awe.

Clarke has never looked more beautiful to you, bathed in blood, her pupils blown, her hair wild. She is gold, red and the storm at sea. You know the look in her eyes, the turmoil. She's so shocked by the violence inside her. You think you discern something else. She never once looks at the body, only at you. You wonder what's going through her mind. Does she think you hate her? You could never. Does she regret what she's done? She shouldn't. Maybe you never found the proof of a monster, but you knew enough to know he deserved this.

He once beat a woman to a pulp. Did she ever recover? Does she still have the scars on her body? Suddenly your line in the sand doesn't matter. He ruined a woman's life, at the very least, it's fitting a woman would end his in return.

Once you've taken in the scene and gotten over your surprise, your instinct to soothe Clarke kicks in fast. You advance toward her and cup her bloody cheeks.

"Breathe."

She looks so relieved that you're touching her; that your tone is soft, but she's still trembling all over. "I… I…"

"Just breathe," you remind her again.

"He was at the bar," she manages to say, hardly blinking at all, still staring at you like you might disappear.

You rub her arms up and down, trying to warm her up. She feels so cold. You understand now why she was so distracted. She saw him there. You don't know how you could've missed him; maybe because you were too focused on your own feelings. You would've never left her if you'd known.

"What happened?" You ask her gently.

"When you left, I…" Her eyes fill with tears. "He recognized me and he… smiled like he was invincible. I just felt so angry."

You nod, encouraging her.

"I kept thinking about him talking to Madi when she's vulnerable. Imagining him filling her head with garbage, trying to lure her."

You think you've got a pretty good picture of what happened, but Clarke needs to get it all out.

"Lexa… I… I flirted with him," she tells you, horrified. "I invited him over. I'm the one who…" She looks so disgusted with herself, so afraid you'd feel betrayed. "I told him to follow me inside our house. Our home."

"Then what?"

Her eyes widen and she looks at the body for the first time. "I left the door open and went to the kitchen. I heard him close the door, so I grabbed the knife..." She shakes her head, trying hard to remember. "I just wanted him gone. Oh God, it's all I could think about."

You look back at his body and the largest slash on his throat. "You have good aim," you say, impressed.

"Lexa…" She trembles, her voice still so stunned. "I killed him. He's dead."

Your chest is bursting with affection. "Yes, one always follows the other."

She looks so lost. You remember your first and how sick you were immediately afterward. Not because of who it was, but because you realized who you truly were: a person capable of taking a man's life, no matter how evil he was. You won't allow that to happen to her.

She stares at you with big doe eyes and clings more tightly to your arms. "Aren't you going to call someone?"

You wipe a smear of blood over her cheekbone. "That wouldn't be very wise with a mess like this to take care of."

She looks so surprised you would say that. "To take care of?"

"Don't worry, I'll do it properly. You go shower."

"Shower?"

You sigh. She's going to repeat everything you say because it sounds foreign to her ears. She doesn't understand how you can be so serene. She doesn't understand how you can think rationally and say words like _shower_ when there's a dead body in your living room. You have to be patient. You have to reassure her.

"Everything's going to work out." You smile at her and kiss the corner of her bloody lips. You don't want to taste his blood but you know a kiss will show her that you aren’t scared of her. She doesn't close her eyes. She looks at you like she can't believe you're real; that you haven’t run for the door. "You did the world a favor. Now he can't touch anyone ever again; the sentence fit the crime."

Clarke grips your forearms tighter. She seems to realize you won't leave her now; that you still love her, maybe love her even more. She should know by now that you were made for her. As long as she wants you, you'll never leave her.

"Lexa, I-" Her voice is like a squeak, choked and so small. Then suddenly her eyes squeeze shut and she lets out a string of sobs. She throws herself into your arms and you don't hesitate to hold her tightly.

That is the release she needs. Crying is normal the first time. She needs to weep until her throat is raw and her eyes are dry. She needs to evacuate it all; the adrenaline and the fear. You let her cling to your neck and wrap herself around you tightly. You don't mind if she squeezes too hard and your breathing is affected. You keep your arms around her waist and wonder if it would be possible to become one with her, just for these few minutes. You just want to shelter her from everything. This world is sick but it was made just a hair better tonight, thanks to her. She deserves peace of mind and rest.

Some time later, her crying devolves into tiny whimpers. You keep holding her until she is reduced to mere sniffles and breathing spasms. You kiss her neck and run a hand up and down her back, letting her know she's safe. When you pull back, she still clings to you.

"I need to take care of this, and you need to clean up, but it doesn't mean you're on your own, alright? I'm with you. I love you. Do you believe me?"

She nods several times and you feel great relief. It pains you to leave Clarke alone while she's still in shock, but the longer the body is beneath your roof, the more dangerous.

"I'll be in the basement. I won't be able to hear you but my phone will be on, okay?"

She nods again and then pulls away to wipe her tears away, but she just smears blood all over her eyelids. God, you love her.

"It'll all work out," you tell her softly; confidently. This is a minor hitch, if you can even call it that. Honestly it's almost more convenient for you, not that you would tell Clarke that right now. But you do have everything you need to make sure nothing goes wrong. Later on, you can both sit down and have a chat. She needs to know the things you've done, too.

\---

You cover the stairs and the floor of your basement with the plastic sheets Clarke usually uses to paint. You put your gloves on and tie your hair up. Emerson is heavy, but you manage to get him down there.

You look over everything you've got at your disposal.

Blowtorch. Pliers. Chainsaw.

You're not really a fan of the mess.

But this isn’t a time to be picky.

\---

When you take care of business, you always lose your sense of time.

Your sense of space.

A part of you switches off.

Only now, everything you do, you do for her. With her.

You fight sleep and the need to check in on Clarke.

You're nothing if not meticulous, even if you have to be fast.

At the end of it, you strip down completely and clean your face in the sink. You grab new clothes from the laundry pile and wipe everything down, or at least enough that it's not a complete carnage. 

\---

The night isn’t long enough and you don't have time to drive to the city, but you know the national forest like you know the freckles on Clarke's body.

You fight the burn in your arms when you dig deep, deep, deep.

\---

When you finally make it back home, you stay in the garage for a moment. You watch the door slide closed behind you and breathe deeply. The stillness feels good, even if the world has started spinning around you. You're exhausted and starving.

Inside your house, you hurry to the bedroom where you find Clarke on your side of the bed. She is clutching your pillow and you hate that you couldn't be there, but you're both safe now. You brush the hair out of her face and then kiss her cheek, relieved that she's managed to sleep. Now you need to wash up too.

Later, when you finally get to make some coffee in the kitchen, you slowly braid your damp hair while staring at the drip-drip from the filter. You know you won't be able to sleep anytime soon. There are too many thoughts in your head; all of which have to do with seeing your wife covered in blood.

You can't get over it.

You grab the mug she gifted you on your first Christmas together and pour the coffee.

"Lexa?"

You turn around. Clarke still looks tired and apprehensive, staring at you from the doorway like she's not sure how to approach you.

"Come here," you tell her gently, meeting her halfway. She wraps her arms around your waist and presses her face against your chest.

"Is it over?" She asks quietly.

You hum in response and she looks up at you, then at the braids you didn't finish. She takes your hand and leads you to the living room, where she motions for you to sit in front of her. For a while, you just sit in silence and enjoy how she works her fingers through your hair. When she's done with your braids, you turn to face her.

She worries her bottom lip. "Where did you…?"

"A couple different spots in the forest. Deep."

Her eyes widen a bit. It must be surreal for her that you'd be discussing this. But your own heart is beating so fast; you want to tell her everything.

"What if someone finds something?" She asks.

You shrug. "Then they'll have a murder case on their hands."

You see the panic on her face and know you have to be straightforward. She needs to see every step the way you do:

"Carl Emerson."

She blinks, her face pale. "What?"

"He wasn't a good person and no one will miss him."

Clarke clings to your every word and you know you have her full attention.

"Suppose… cops manage to identify him, they'll find out that he served time for a vicious assault. Not really someone they'd feel sorry for." You lean back against the arm of the couch. "But they still have to investigate a murder, that's true. So they'll send some poor schlub to his apartment first, where I'm guessing they'll find a stack of photos that'd make anyone decent sick to their stomach."

You see the flash of anger in Clarke's eyes. "Regardless, there's still a murderer out there so the case remains open. Schluby retraces his footsteps: looks at his phone bill and his bank statements. It turns out that the last thing Emerson did is buy himself a couple of beers at a bar not too far away. Let’s imagine Schluby heads out there."

Clarke never looks away from you, sitting as still as a statue. You continue, knowing you need to address each possibility, each fear running through her mind: “Security footage will be handed over, so now let's assume that the people who left right before and right after Emerson are identified and interrogated. One day, Schluby knocks on our door. But what is there for him to find? No connection, no motive—Emerson was barely a ship in the night to us. Two 5′ 5″ women in Treebark Grove would’ve murdered a stranger and disposed of a body? It's a tough one to even consider, let alone believe with nothing backing it up."

You shrug. "I think Schluby's file will go into a box, which will go onto a shelf in a storage room. But…"

You see Clarke hold her breath. "That's all one extreme possibility after the other. They won't find the body, Clarke. Nobody will care he's gone. Nobody will call the cops. Eventually his landlord will rent out to someone else and everyone will be better off."

You realize Clarke doesn't look worried anymore and give her a smile, but then you notice something else. Her breathing's picked up and her eyes have a hazy look. You know that expression by heart, but it only happens when-

Oh.

"Clarke."

You're not prepared for how she lunges at you, but your hands are immediately on her waist when she kisses you hard. She is messy and desperate, but you would give her anything she wants. Your hands go down to her ass and you slip a thigh between her legs, allowing her to grind down on it. You feel how hot she is and imagine how wet she must be.

But the couch is too small for how you want to take her. You kiss her neck and grab her hand. "Come with me."

She follows you quickly into the corridor that leads to your bedroom, but suddenly she spins you around and kisses you again.

"Lexa, I can't," she whimpers against your mouth.

You grip her waist and push her against the wall, watching her mouth part open. "Can't what?"

"I need you, I just- need you," she pleads, grabbing your hand and guiding it between her thighs.

Lust shoots through your body and you groan. That's what she means - she can't make it to your bedroom. In a swift move, you pin both her hands on either side of her head and kiss her. Your fingers interlock and she moans loudly. She loves when your hands join like that. It feels like penetration to her, like you're joining together, becoming a part of her and she a part of you. You learned that pretty early on in your relationship and it always turns you on to please her. You love having her like this, in the morning when she looks and smells most like herself. You love her made up and smelling like roses too, but there's something different about being at your most natural together.

"How do you need me?" You ask.

Her eyes darken and she kisses you again, only this time it's slower. She lets go of your hands and then turns around, pressing her forehead against the wall.

You lean against her back and rest your hands on her waist, like you would if she were on all fours for you.

"Like this?" You whisper in her ear.

She nods fervently. You waste no time and reach up beneath her t-shirt to squeeze her breasts while you grind against her ass, giving her very little of the friction she desperately wants.

"Lexa," she moans.

You slip a hand inside her shorts and between her legs, barely clinging to control when you feel how wet she is.

"How?" You ask again.

You run two fingers between her folds, then brush your thumb over her clit. She jerks in pleasure.

"Oh God, Lexa. Inside. Please."

Your mind becomes completely clouded with your desire for her. You run your fingers against her entrance but never dip inside, not even when she widens her legs.

" _Please_ ," she tells you again, reaching down to cover your hand with hers. She grinds desperately against you and you know you've pushed far enough.

You sink two fingers inside her and waste no time in finding a rhythm that satisfies her cries for more. When she starts to move with you, when you push a third finger inside her and feel her walls clench tightly, you lean your forehead against her shoulder and close your eyes. You only want to feel her, only want to focus on her body and the ways you can please her. You know this is only the beginning, that she needs you desperately now but will want you tenderly after. 

You start to breathe hard, though not loud enough that it covers the sound of you pumping fast and deep inside her. You grow dizzy, near delirious. It's your first time together since she's killed someone. It's your first time since she knows the true depth of your love for her. You've never gotten drunk in your life because you've always known your limits, but you imagine this is what it feels like.

"Lexa," she pants, then lets out a loud cry when her orgasm blindsides you both.

You feel her tighten around you and wrap your free arm around her waist to keep her from falling. You haven’t stopped rubbing yourself against her ass, trying to soothe the growing ache inside you. She holds your wrist and stops you, either too sensitive or too eager for something else. You pull out and watch as she turns around. She is as flushed as you must be, but when she kisses you it's with the tenderness you see in her eyes. She sucks on your bottom lip and then pulls on your t-shirt, guiding you both toward the bedroom.

You've gotten rid of your clothes when you settle on top of her in bed. She looks up at you with searching eyes and you offer a smile. She kisses you and you lose yourself in it for long enough that it's almost a surprise to you when she takes your hand and guides it between your bodies.

"Want you inside me."

You run your index over her clit but she shakes her head. You frown, confused.

"No," she says hotly against your mouth. "Want _all of you_ inside me."

Oh. You bite your lip and touch yourself instead, unsurprised to find yourself wet and desperate for touch. She holds your head close to her chest while you finger yourself atop her, at first with one finger and then two. She runs her own fingers through your hair, tugging at it to make you groan. You let out a string of small grunts and moans, both of you hearing the sounds of your thrusts.

"Baby, stop," she tells you.

You've never obeyed her more quickly. She knows how you like it - how you like the edging and the buildup. She takes your hand and you both watch as she guides it between her thighs. Your fingers are covered in your essence when you slide them inside her, mixing yourself with her. She cups the back of your neck and pulls you in for a deep kiss.

You pump inside her slowly, relishing in the feel of her body against yours, her thighs spread on each side of you, widening to accommodate your fingers from tip to base. She's so warm and wet inside and you can feel her muscles clench around you. Each time you pull out and push back in, just a bit harder, Clarke lets out a breathy moan. She likes it slow and hard, where your thrusts are drawn out but the force of each makes her toes curl. This is nothing like taking her against the wall so she can have her release. This is wanting to be one with her, wanting her to know how much you love her, love her desires and her pleasure, love her body and her soul. You would die for her and you would kill for her and you would bury every body she has killed herself.

"Lexa," she gasps. She's barely holding on, eyes closing when you lower your mouth to her nipple, rolling your tongue over it. Her hand fists your hair at the base of your neck and it sends a throb of desire between your legs. She's slowly losing control and you can't help but start grinding against the mattress.

She comes with a loud moan and you're so turned on it hurts. Your mind feels so foggy that you don’t even realize she’s already pushed you on your back. She smiles down and then kisses you, draping herself atop you. She moves against you languidly, her breasts touching yours and the wetness between her thighs smearing against your hips. If there is a way for you to die happy, this is it.

When she finally presses inside you, you know you won’t last long. It feels like you need a release more than you need air. You are completely consumed with desire for her. In awe of how she looks, when she looks at you. She knows you by heart and yet she still takes pleasure exploring you.

"You're so beautiful, baby," she tells you in between kisses. "You feel so good."

You cling to her until pleasure soars through your body and you come with her name on your lips. Clarke presses quick kisses to your chin and your cheek and then smiles at you like you’re her treasure. You kiss her again and again until you can't even think anymore.

\---

When you wake up some time later, you can tell Clarke is awake too. There's just a hint of sunlight through your closed drapes, enough that you see Clarke staring at her nails. They're immaculately clean and you know she must've spent some time taking the blood out after scrubbing herself raw in the shower. It's what you used to do the first couple of times. You were so worried you would get caught that you stared at every inch of your body obsessively, trying to see if something might give you away. Later, you realized it wasn't so much being caught that troubled you, but carrying any part of your kill with you.

"They're clean," you reassure her. You know these kinds of thoughts will stay with her for a while.

She turns around and looks at you, really looks at you in the dim glow of the light, and then takes your hand in hers. She does this when she's scared to talk; when you confess your heaviest secrets.

"I can't stop thinking about it," she admits.

You squeeze her hand. "He's not worth your thoughts," you tell her, because it's what you believe.

Clarke shakes her head. "No. Not him. The fact that it didn't feel wrong."

"Because it was the right thing to do."

"It's murder."

"Yes."

Clarke lets go of your hand to hold herself up on her forearms. She looks down at you and you think she looks so beautiful right then, with her hair cascading toward you, creating a curtain for the both of you. "Baby, have you…"

You know it's time to bare yourself and nod slowly. Her eyes rove all over your face, waiting for any sign that you might be lying, maybe to make her feel better. You would never lie to her though. You have kept things from her and that was lying by omission, but you have never purposefully deceived her. Had she ever asked you about it before, you would have been truthful.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She asks. She sounds sad and it breaks your heart. If you'd known this day would come, you would've never waited.

"You've always seen the best in me. I thought it would hurt you to see the other parts."

Clarke shakes her head and cups your cheek. "Never. I want to know every part of you."

"I… I could tell you." You bite your lip, feeling your heart beat faster. You've never wanted anything more than for her to know everything. 

Clarke brushes her thumb over your bottom lip, stopping you from bruising yourself. You didn't realize you were biting down so hard. It's like an old reflex to keep yourself from spilling your secrets.

"Lexa," she says, taking your hand again to entangle your fingers. "Last night, I was so afraid when I heard your key in the lock. I imagined you being horrified, you backing away from me. I thought I'd never get to see you love me again. But then you walked toward me and you touched me. Everything felt so hard to understand, but you took me in your arms and I believed you when you said we'd be okay." She holds your stare with the fierceness of her own love shining through. "There is _nothing_ you could say that would drive me away."

You share a terrible secret together and it's uncharted territory, but you've never felt safer. You kiss her and watch as she lies her head on the pillow, right next to you.

"When did it start?" She asks you.

"Community college. I was nineteen."

"Who was it?"

You've always avoided thinking back on the first because he broke someone you loved. It was revenge. "Lorenzo Sandler. Twenty-one. Walked around campus with Ambien in his pockets. Spiked my girlfriend's drink at a frat party and-" Clarke runs her hand over your fist. You've been clenching the sheet so hard your knuckles have turned white. There's a reason you don't think about him. You lose control when you do. You feel so much anger, still. You would bring him back to life to kill him again if you could.

"We can do this later," Clarke says. She's rubbing your hand with her thumb, caressing your cheek with the other.

If you don't get it out now, you never will. Your past is safe with her. Your heart is safe with her.

"I didn't go because I was studying for a final, but I got her call at 3am," you continue. "Somehow she made it to her dorm and locked herself in her bathroom. But she couldn't stop sobbing."

Clarke holds her breath.

"She was brilliant, Clarke. She was going to work in politics and she was going to change the world. But he broke her. She dropped out a month later and moved back home to Louisiana. Couldn't bring herself to tell the cops or anyone else. She changed her phone number, deleted all her social media. She just… vanished."

You still think about her sometimes. You hope that she healed, that she excelled at whatever she tried next, that she found love like you did. You hope that she got some satisfaction when she heard, if she heard.

"I would see him on campus every week, walking freely, talking to girls and throwing more parties." You remember that part so clearly. It's etched in your bones. "So I went to one."

Clarke barely blinks, clinging to your every word. It's almost surreal to you, like the most vivid dream of your life. You're actually saying these words out loud. She's seeing every part of you and still she holds your hand and caresses your cheek to keep you from clenching your jaw. Sometimes her love shows in the smallest of gestures and they make you want to cry.

"It wasn't hard to get his attention. I made sure it was late; that everyone else was already wasted. I only talked to him in dark spots and then I gave him a drink. I let him take me upstairs. Told him I wanted to take a bath. The way he lit up, it's like I'd told him the best news in the world. He got a bath started, took his clothes off and got in. I watched him get woozy, start to slur on his words. He kept telling me to get in. Then I watched him realize I'd spiked his drink with the same shit he used. He tried to get up but he passed out. His head slipped under the surface."

You look at Clarke and tell her what you suppose is the most terrible part of it all: "I watched him drown. Stayed there twenty minutes, to be sure. Then I left to my dorm."

"How did you…? You were alone—weren't you scared?"

"Terrified. But sometimes I wonder how much of it was just… what I thought I should feel. Remorseful. Guilty. Because if I didn't feel that after a murder, what kind of person did that make me?"

Clarke swallows thickly. You know she's been thinking the same about herself.

"After a few weeks I stopped lying to myself. There was one less rapist in this world and I decided I wasn't going to apologize for that."

You look up at her to gauge her reaction. She seems hesitant to say what's running through her mind, so you wait patiently.

"Your father."

You hold your breath.

You haven’t thought about him since that night Clarke fell asleep on your lap. Even if you want Clarke to know every part of you, Titus has always been different. He'll always have his hooks in you. It'll never be easy to talk about him.

"I knew," she says.

You don't know what to tell her. It feels like she's dug up your most shameful secret. Titus was different. It's you that he hurt, not the rest of the world. Killing Titus was selfish. You were weak for doing it, even if you were successful.

“He goes on a business trip, you go on a business trip. I get Sylvia’s call." Clarke continues. "I knew. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted me to know.”

The back of your throat hurts, like you're on the verge of crying. You don't want to. Clarke cups your cheeks.

"Hey, no. Baby, look at me."

You close your eyes and shake your head.

"Lexa." She tucks your hair behind your ears. "He deserved it."

That surprises you. You open your eyes, frowning. Clarke almost looks angry. "A dad's supposed to love and protect his kid—that's not much to ask. But he used you and he hurt you."

“I’m not usually that way," you say. "That sloppy."

"What is it like then? Your... _usually?_ " 

You're surprised by how curious she looks, but it feels good to get it all off your chest. To share it with her.

"I have a method. A line no one should cross."

She bites her lip. "Does it feel good? When you do it?"

You wonder if she's asking for herself. If it felt good when she flirted with him, because she knew deep down where it was all leading. If it felt good to lure him. To slash his throat. Good is dangerous; it can be addictive. It's not something you ever felt. Watching Lorenzo in the bathtub didn't feel like justice. It just made your angrier. Why did this world ever make space for him in the first place?

"No, but it feels right."

She nods in relief. "It felt right to me too."

She smiles at you and there's a beat before you grab her hips and flip her over on her back. She lets out her first laugh since yesterday and you fall deeper in love with her. You pin her hands above her head and kiss her softly.

"It feels as right as being with you." You kiss her neck and her collarbones, making your way to her breasts while your hand caresses the inside of her thigh. "I’ve never questioned it."

Her eyes darken as she watches you. "Lexa..."

You take a nipple in your mouth, biting softly. "Never regretted it."

Her hands reach up for the bars of your bed to grip them tightly. You feel how slick she is and dip just the tip of your finger inside her before retreating.

"Never thought of stopping."

"Don’t, don’t..." she pleads quietly, murmuring toward the ceiling.

You enter her with one finger, shortly followed by another. You thrust inside her so slowly. She lifts her pelvis, wanting you deeper. You get distracted by her nipples for a moment, wanting to lavish as much attention on each. Eventually you make your way down her body and give her clit a teasing suck before diving your tongue inside her, licking into her. You part her legs wider and she rests them on your shoulders, reaching down to hold your head. She’s so close.

You feel her desperation and embrace her fully, get lost in her smell and her taste. You’ve never wanted to please her more. You want her to writhe with pleasure, to soar high in the night sky and fall back in your arms. You're so famished for her that you don't even think to hold back. She gives herself to you and you greedily drink everything she offers. She starts to repeat your name over and over, her thighs trembling and her hands desperate to pull you even closer.

When she comes and cries out loudly, something desperate overtakes her. She pulls you up like she would die if she didn't look into your eyes, and then she kisses you so deeply that for a moment you forget where you are, who you are, and anything that isn’t her. She tastes herself on your lips and your tongue. You are both so sweaty, breathing hard, but you don’t care so long as she clings to you. She needs you and you need her, need to breathe her in and fill your lungs with her. You’ve never felt so close to her.

"Come here," she tells you, digging her fingers into your hips as she tries to pull you up.

You get the hint and feel your heart beat out of your chest. You straddle her stomach and she grins at you, still motioning for you to move up her body. She looks so happy. Sometimes you can't believe that she wants you as much as you want her. You bite your lip, knowing that your cheeks are flush with desire. She cups your ass and pulls you closer, until you're hovering over her face. You're careful that you don't trap her hair beneath your knees.

She's so hungry for you that she doesn't wait for you to lower yourself on her mouth. She lifts her head and runs her tongue through you, making your thighs tremble. You're so weak. So weak for her lips and the way she handles you. She licks you in broad strokes, pressing as hard as she can. Your mouth parts open and you try to keep your eyes open. You want to look at her. You want to remember every second of this.

You grip the headboard like she did earlier and rock forward against her mouth, encouraged by the press of her hands. You’ve done this so many times that you know what she tells you without saying it. You can barely feel the rest of your body, only the growing ache inside you that her mouth stokes with each swipe of her tongue. You grow so dizzy that you don’t even realize she’s stopped. She squeezes your thighs and you get the hint, shifting back until she can sit up and you’re straddling her.

Her hand is between your legs as fast as her tongue is inside your mouth. She enters you at the same time she kisses you and you’re so close you have to pull back. She presses her forehead against yours and keeps her eyes on your face while she pumps fast inside you. When she reaches up with her thumb to rub your clit, your orgasm is so powerful that you can't even hold yourself up. She wraps her free arm around your waist and you see her smile before you have to close your eyes again. You pull her close while you fall back against the mattress, overwhelmed. She tucks her head above your chest and you drift asleep in a matter of minutes.

When you wake up, it’s well into the evening and Clarke is still fast asleep. You run your fingers through her hair while you stare at the ceiling, feeling like you have never been so content in your life.

\---

On Sunday, both your bodies are sore and tired, but you spend it deep in love with each other and it's all that matters. You go over every corner of the basement together, cleaning until it's spotless and organized. You find Emerson's apartment keys and keep them in a drawer for now. Clarke distracts you with questions, like why the rat poison is already half empty when you've never had a problem with rodents. There is a lot to catch her up on.

You're in the kitchen thinking about a late lunch when Clarke suddenly realizes something.

“I can’t go!” She exclaims.

“Can’t go where?”

“Wells— _dinner_ ,” she reminds you with wide eyes.

Oh. You’d completely forgotten about it.

“Why not? You haven’t seen him in a year.”

“Lexa, I killed someone,” she says.

You arch a brow. “Yes?”

She throws her hands up. “I slashed a man's throat and today I'm—what, just going to have dinner?”

You blink in confusion.

“Lexa!”

You walk to her and take her hands. “Look, you're going to see your best friend, catch up for hours over good wine and good food, and then you're going to come home and have a great night’s sleep. That's really all there is to it."

“But-“

“You don’t even know you beat me to it.”

“What?”

In retrospect, it does all seem darkly funny to you. “I was probably going to kill Emerson tonight. I just needed a bit more, but-"

She takes a step back. “Tonight? While I was off laughing over sushi?"

You chuckle. “Exactly. So there’s really nothing to worry about. You deserve to enjoy yourself.” You kiss her lips and then walk toward the living room. “I think I might catch up on my book.”

“Lexa, what- wait!”

You turn to her and wait patiently as she opens and closes her mouth a few times.

“Do you think I should take a jacket with me?" She finally asks.

You grin. “Yes. Hm… the blue one if you wear your black dress." 

Much later, when you hear her come back after midnight, she washes up quietly and then slips into bed. She knows you're awake and moves close to you, settling behind you with her arm over your waist. 

"How did it go?" You ask tiredly.

"It was so much fun. I missed him."

"I know you did."

She nuzzles your neck and then tucks her head by your shoulder. You smile at her sleepy sigh and cover her hand with yours. 

\---

The last week of the school year comes at last but with it comes a rare downpour. The rain lasts for days and nights and your backyard just about turns into a swamp. Clarke tells you Madi is her usual self and you know she takes great comfort in that. Madi's life probably still feels like chaos to her, and her pain won't be washed away, but at least she's safe. You just hope the summer will be kinder to her.

To you, the week feels like being on a train to nowhere. It drags on at work and at home, where even Clarke seems uneasy. You don't know if it's the rain, but there's something in the air that you don't understand yet.

You don't believe in karma and you don't believe in omens.

But you believe in the dread growing inside you.

\---

On the night when thunder rips through the sky for the first time, Clarke wakes up in a cold sweat, sobbing and repeating your name.

You’re groggy but you reach out for her in the dark, bringing her closer to you. She clings to your waist, crying harder than she did the night you found her bloody and terrified of what she'd done. You’re at a complete loss, unable to reassure her when you don’t know the root of her fears. Did she dream about that night? You kiss the top of her head and tell her how much you love her, your hands slipping beneath her shirt to caress her back. You don't know what else to do but wait until she cries herself to sleep.

When the room goes still again and her breathing evens out, the fear inside you is almost suffocating. There are a few times when you feel powerless to help Clarke, and tonight was one of them. She is closer to you than she could ever be, asleep and safe, and yet you've never felt more distant.

The next time you open your eyes, you know it's early morning. You move Clarke gently and then slip out of bed, sighing when your ears pick up on the rain still falling outside.

You stand by the kitchen island and stare at your electric kettle, trying to focus on anything but the echo of Clarke's sobs. You understood her cries the night she killed, but you didn't understand them last night. They came from a place deep inside her, a place she's never shown you before. Like someone had taken her heart out. Like she had seen and felt all the pain in this world and been overcome by it. You were powerless to soothe your wife and you feel like a failure for it.

She's so quiet that you don’t hear her pull out a chair at the kitchen table. When you turn around with your coffee, you’re surprised to see her. She looks determined when she looks up at you.

"Promise me you won’t plan anything without me."

"What?" You’re so confused.

"You know what. Promise me, Lexa."

"Is this about your dream?"

Her eyes look so heavy. She gives you a slow nod and clutches the side of the table. "You were... getting rid of someone by the river. Cops swarmed all around you. I couldn’t- I couldn’t get to you." Her voice cracks when she looks at you. "They shot you down."

It makes sense to you now; she’s worried she’ll lose you. You sit down at the table.

"Clarke..."

"Please just say it."

For a moment you're unsure what you truly want to say. You’ve been doing this alone for so long. There’s always a risk, she’s right, but you didn't mind it so much when it was just you. At least if you burned yourself, Clarke would be safe. But if she were involved you could lose her forever; lose each other. If you were both arrested, you'd be kept away from her, never to see each other again. You'd never be able to stomach it. You'd go mad.

But now you think about the situations being reversed and how you'd dislike Clarke making life-changing decisions behind your back. Putting her life on the line without ever telling you. You know it was selfish; that it must still hurt her that you did it for so long without her knowing.

A decision like this can't be about what you think is best for her. Clarke knows herself. If she believes this is something you can see through together, then you believe it too. You would follow your wife into the darkest abyss and know without a doubt she is leading you toward the right path.

You can't stand to see her blue eyes shine and kneel by her.

"Please look at me." When she does, you take her hands in yours and hold her gaze. "I promise you."

Her bottom lip trembles. "I can’t lose you."

"You won’t."

She leans down to kiss you and you feel like your body awakens again. You are so lost without her. When she pulls back, you have trouble opening your eyes. She cups your cheeks and presses her forehead against yours, breathing with you.

"I feel like I wasn't alive until I met you," she murmurs.

"No, love, you have it backwards."

She smiles at you and kisses you again, until you're both rising together and standing in your kitchen, until she has you pressed against the table and completely at her mercy.

You remember the first time you stepped into this house with her. You knew you wanted a life with her far earlier than that, but when she stood in this kitchen and turned around to grin at you, you knew it would all start here. That you would grow together here. That you would love each other and argue with each other here. That you would hold each other through whatever may come.

You've never felt more certain of it.

\---

The dark clouds finally part on Friday, the last day of school. You've planned to surprise Clarke by picking her up and bringing her flowers, though you're fairly certain this is another surprise she knows about. Still, it doesn't matter when you get out of your car and look toward the busy entrance of the school. Kids are half-running in all directions, loud and happy the last day has finally come.

You grab your flowers and lock your car when you hear a voice:

"Are you Clarke's wife?"

You turn and see a girl with an oversized t-shirt and beat-up sneakers standing in front of you. Madi. It has to be her. She probably recognized you from the frame on Clarke's desk.

"I am. Madi, right?"

She nods and then glances at your car. "I read that that car is super reliable," she says.

You know what small talk is—a distraction from something deeper. "You like cars?"

She nods, then chews on her bottom lip. She wants to talk to you, but she's hesitant.

"Is there something I can help you with?" You gently ask.

She tenses immediately. "I… I…"

It's when you notice the tears suddenly forming in her eyes that you approach her. "Hey, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head and wipes her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Take your time."

"I-I didn't wanna…"

You frown, watching her struggle with whether or not she should say anything. "Didn't want what?"

She suddenly digs into her pocket and pulls out a wad of money, shoving it in your palm. When your eyes meet, she seems even more anxious. "He gave me this but I never meant to use it, I swear!"

You try to understand, but her panic only confuses you. "Madi, what are you talking about? Who gave you this?"

"Collin. Clarke's friend?"

Your heart drops in your stomach. "Collin… gave you money?"

She nods frantically. "I said I wanted to go to the city and he said he'd help me if I helped him, but I didn't really—" She starts to stutter on her words again, teary-eyed. "I wouldn't leave my mom alone! I wouldn’t! It was just a stupid thought!"

You kneel by her side urgently. "What did he ask you to do in exchange for this?"

She looks down, uncertain.

"Please, Madi, this is very important," you tell her. "Why did he give you money?"

She meets your eyes again. "He said that he was Clarke's friend but that something happened and he wanted to make it better. He just wanted to know things about her. About what I talked about with her. How she helped me and-" she cuts herself off, then speaks more quietly, like she's ashamed. "Other stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Like… what she wore sometimes."

You realize you've been sinking your nails into you knee when it starts to hurt. You get up and try not to lock your jaw; try not to see red. That part of you fades when you look back into Madi's watery eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers. "He was nice to me, but then he started asking weird things. He wanted me to steal the picture of her and you."

You squeeze her arm. "You don't have anything to be sorry for, okay? It's good that you told me."

"Is Clarke going to be upset?"

"No, of course not. She just wants you to be happy."

Madi rubs her sleeve across her eyes. "I'm going to hang out at my aunt's house this summer. I like it there."

"That's good. You're going to have a lot of fun, I'm sure."

"Are you going to tell Clarke what I did?"

You swallow thickly. "Don't worry about that. Just enjoy your summer. Everything's going to work out, Madi. Do you believe me?"

She reads you for a moment before nodding shyly. You glance toward her bus stop. 

"Come on. You have a bus to catch."

She leaves quickly, but not without a glance back when her bus arrives and she waits in line with the other kids. You give her a smile before watching her disappear inside.

Then, you get back in your car and throw the flowers in the back. You can only think about one thing: Emerson's apartment keys in your basement.

\---

You think you might be prepared for what you'll see once you walk into his apartment.

You think you got the idea.

The answer to your questions, your doubts, and your hesitations.

But you're not.

When you close the door behind you, the keys you held drop to the floor.

The room is littered with pictures of Clarke.

Some printed, others framed. Clarke in stores, smiling on the phone. Clarke on sidewalks and at the beach; with her friends, with her mother. There are close-ups of her face, her smile, and every part of her body; wide shots of her through winter and spring. There are shots of her empty office at night.

You feel sick, like you can't breathe. You feel like Emerson stands behind you with his hands around your neck, slowly choking you. You feel dread pool in the pit of your stomach like a poison.

It was never Madi. He only talked to Madi to feel closer to Clarke. To pretend he was in her life. To feed his obsession. It wasn't her at all.

You want to punch the walls and drench them with your blood. You want to trash everything. Burn it to the ground. You want to unearth his bones and break them into pieces. You want to die so that you can hunt him down in hell for the rest of his days. But you can’t.

You try to breathe through your fury. You bite the insides of your cheeks and clench your hands into fists. You try to remember the feel of Clarke's hand on your jaw so that you can relax it.

Clarke. Oh God, Clarke.

How could you tell her that she didn't kill for Madi? She would never forgive herself. As far as you’re concerned Emerson is where he belongs, but you know Clarke won’t see it that way. She’ll think she killed for nothing. That she made a mistake because he wasn’t as rotten as she believed. You can’t let that happen. There is so much kindness and good in her—you won’t let this dead man snuff it out. This is on you; your mistake. You only saw the proof you wanted to see. There is so much you missed because you weren’t looking for it. He was at the park for Clarke. At the school for Clarke. At the bar for Clarke. When she invited him, of course he followed.

When he smirked at you, he saw his opponent. He saw someone who was failing her wife. He saw himself replacing you.

You are so furious at yourself for missing it. He stalked her for months and you saw nothing. You who claims to know the signs so well; you could’ve lost her because he outsmarted you. You would’ve killed him if you’d seen this room before, likely in the blind rage you're struggling to control now.

You squeeze your eyes shut and count to ten in your head. You can't lose it. You need to pull yourself together and take care of this, like you told Clarke you would.

You open your eyes and focus all your thoughts on each task. You find trash bags and take down every picture one by one. You don't stop. You don't think.

When the walls are finally bare, you start looking everywhere else in his apartment. You go through each piece of furniture and step on every floorboard to make sure none are hiding his secrets. There is nothing in the drawers, the closet, the pockets of his clothes, beneath his pillow, behind the refrigerator. Nothing but dust and rust. When you are certain that you've erased Clarke from this place, you grab some of his clothes, his computer, and the small suitcase in his closet. You shove them in bags and think quickly. You'll have to get rid of the suitcase and the clothes in separate places, likely some packed dumpsters in different parts of the city. That will be easy enough. To his landlord, he'll have bailed. To a cop, he'll have skipped town like he did before. This doesn’t change what you told Clarke before. You’re still safe so long as there is no trace of his obsession with her left here.

You wipe the sweat off your forehead and try to breathe deeply, but you still can’t. You’re brimming with a need to scream and all your muscles feel locked. You have to get out of here.

\---

It’s evening when you finally come home. You spent the day driving to dump his suitcase in one place and the rest of his possessions in another. You couldn’t be too careful, not after your mistake.

When you walk through the house and hurry toward the basement with your large garbage bags, Clarke appears from the kitchen.

"Baby-"

"Don’t."

"Lexa."

You stop. Clarke always has the last word, but this time you can’t let it happen.

"I have to do this on my own. Please." You feel so tired, like you could sleep for days. You just want it all to be over. You can barely stand to look at her, knowing that one look would bring you to your knees.

She knows it must be important if you're pleading with her, but she was also adamant before about sharing your burdens. Though she must realize that opening the bags would change everything. What are you protecting her from?

"You swear... you promise me you’re not in danger?" She asks you instead.

You remember your promise to her and nod. "I promise you."

The silence she leaves you in makes you feel breathless, until finally she walks by you and stops. She lifts you chin and when you look into her eyes you feel like you can breathe again. You know that she trusts you, as she always has and always will. She cups the back of your neck and you rest your head on her shoulder, closing your eyes as she runs her fingers through your hair and presses her lips against your neck.

"Okay."

\---

Hours later, after you have shredded every photo, after you've thought over every single detail over and over again, you emerge from the basement and drag your body to the bathroom. You find Clarke at the sink tying the drawstring of her sleep shorts and know that she's been waiting for you.

You wrap your arms around her waist and rest your chin on her shoulder, mustering a smile when she leans back against you and covers your hands with hers. You look at each other in the mirror and feel your body release every remnant of your self-hatred. You don’t need to scream or punch walls or trash furniture. You only need her—this, the reminder that she stands by you no matter what and you stand by her no matter what.

You entwine your fingers together and linger in the quiet of the room. Finally she turns to you and kisses you slowly, knowing you're so exhausted that you can barely move your mouth against hers. You still savor the softness of her lips and the sweetness of her smell. She gives you one last kiss and brushes her nose against yours.

"Let's get some sleep."

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm a regular churchgoer. Find me at aphrodites-law.tumblr.com if you'd like...


End file.
